


Omatsuri

by cococape



Category: Original Work
Genre: BIPOC, Fantasy, Festival, Gen, Japanese Folklore, Memory, Nostalgia, Original Characters - Freeform, POV First Person, Short Story, ambiguous ending, japanese myth, realistic fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28762755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cococape/pseuds/cococape
Summary: How much do you remember about that summer festival I took you to?
Kudos: 7





	Omatsuri

Do you remember that day during the summer that year? When the hill lit up with the dying sun, brighter than the rising moon? When we walked up the steep uneven stone stairs surrounded by strangers, men and women and children of reds, pinks, and blues? Their _yukatas_ were decorated with morning glories, stormy waves, making that humid August evening just a bit cooler, just a bit more bearable. You asked where we were going as we followed the entranced crowd, and I replied simply with; “The Festival”.

I remember your face as we tackled those final steps, the smell of foods; savoury and warm, inviting us to join the fun. The lights decorating the stalls glowed orange like flames, as tinny music played from old low quality CD players. The first thing we did was buy some shaved ice -- or at least I introduced them to you, pointing out the stall with the blue roof and the long line. You were both fascinated and overwhelmed by the colour choice, you told me, so I chose the flavour for you -- red cherry -- and although the syrup was overpoweringly artificial, you laughed and told me you loved it and ate it all the same. Mine had a light blue colour, that flavour people could never put their finger on and could only describe as sugar. I let you have a spoonful, like you offered a spoonful to me.

You weren’t fluent in the language you told me, but I could see your eyes light up when a vendor we passed called,

_“Takoyaki! Takoyaki for sale!”_

It was perhaps the first word you recognized, heard in some movie or TV show that you loved and were inspired by. You burned your mouth with the first bite, and I laughed while reassuring you that everyone gets burned the first time. Even people who’ve eaten it for years find the heat startling, like the piece of octopus trapped inside the batter was on fire, and the surrounding humidity never made it any easier to bear. But with the mayonnaise cultivated on our land and the sweet _okonomiyaki_ sauce, the balls cooled to an edible temperature for both of us to enjoy. It was the defining taste of August, I told you, and you argued with me, asked if I were joking as you tried to make an argument against me, but this was what I grew up with and so it was an indisputable fact that I’ve always known.

Do you still remember that stall we went to, where they offered us a game; Scoop a goldfish with paper and win yourself a friend. We each played a round with children surrounding us, and though we both won, you gave your bagged fish to the boy beside you, who lost and got no compensation in return. Feeling bad for you, I played and won you a yoyo. You didn’t believe me, you thought it was a trick. After all, it was just a balloon filled with water, the end tied to an elastic string, which itself ended in a loop to hang around your finger like a weight by your side. But it was real, and I told you it was real, and you appreciated my gift all the same.

As we circled back, nearing the entrance once more, you pointed out to me the people gathering around the small stage in the center, red and white in colour, covered in lanterns, presenting the man in the center with _bachi_ sticks in hand, standing in front of his _taiko_ drum. I tried to go join the dance, but you dragged me to the shadow of the trees, convinced me to sit in the cool grass with you and just watch instead.

You asked what they were doing and I told you that they were going to dance. As if on cue, we heard a big bang; a sound like thunder, shaking across the sky on that clear cloudless night. The man on the stage began to beat to a rhythm that seemed effortless, as if plucked directly from the still and silent air around him. Women began to sing, repeating words to a melody sung by other women years, decades, maybe even centuries before. The crowd began to dance in unison, smiles and laughs all around as their mesmerising movements took them clockwise.

Do you remember the cat that came to rub against you, who purred loud enough to be heard above the song as you absentmindedly scratched behind its ears, along its back? You pointed to the stone path leading into the trees behind us and asked what was back there. I told you that there was of course a shrine there, a place where people once prayed for rain or luck to a smaller god, but whatever god they prayed to then must be long gone by now, off to travel to another town with another small shrine, where people needed them more. You were saddened at the thought, so I suggested to buy _takoyaki_ to leave at the shrine, as whatever could reside there now must at least be taking offerings or charity. When we reached the small thing, I think you almost remarked that you’d thought it would be bigger, but out of respect or perhaps because of the old man lingering around at the time, you decided not to utter it. When we left empty handed towards the music once more, you seemed more pleased, and in turn that made me happy too.

But there are things I think you don’t remember, things I think you never even noticed that night. Like the man who shuffled through from stall to stall, tall, muscular, and built like a mountain that reached the clouds and touched the sky. He parted the people -- or perhaps the people parted for him -- not enough to be obvious but enough for him to pass by easily as he ate the foods the vendors provided him. His curled, untamable hair hid the _Oni_ ’s horns, as he watched the festivities unfurl around him, no malice in his eyes this time, only enjoyment.

I don’t think you noticed -- but then I can’t blame you for not recognizing -- that the boy at the game stall wore clothes too old for this time period, that it hid a fox tail that flicked carelessly into view in his glee. Looking back, I maybe should have warned you, for the fish’s fate was sealed for a slow death the second it entered his arms, but though the fox was a creature of trickery, this boy seemed only to want some fun. Those animals could be pranksters you see, but as kits they were more likely to just be curious of humans; our lives, societies, and functions. And anyways, satisfaction to that curiosity was not a thing I was willing to part with that child.

What about the old man who watched us leave, his eyes kind and full of wisdom, who seemed as if he had lived a thousand lives and was ready to live a thousand more? You didn’t realize that I told you a white lie, that as we turned our backs to leave, I peeked the aging god taking our offering, a joy of being seen and remembered playing on his face. You missed him as he came back into the festival to watch the people laugh and smile, singing and moving with a fluidity that could only be found and mustered this time of the year.

You turned to me then, as the music came to an end, as the spell was broken and the dancers dispersed, becoming strangers once more. You turned to me and asked me what the point of this was. What the celebration was, and why we were there. Do you remember me watching the bodies pass us as they started down the steps once more, catching snippets of conversation from the air like fireflies? I told you it was a celebration of the season, a celebration for the dead, a celebration just for the sake of celebrating. That the purpose of this festival was to entertain, and in turn was the entertainment for everyone. It’s to remember and give remembrance, to remind the people of their ancestors, and to let the ghosts of their ancestors know they are remembered.

But I didn’t tell you that the festival was also for the spirits, the creatures that parents told stories of to their children. That even the _oni_ , the fox, and the god had their ancestors, their own ghosts that they wanted to remember and commemorate. And as much as they are our demons and deities, as much as we see them as evil or all powerful, they still deserve to commemorate the lives of those that came before them. Who am I or anyone else to prevent them from taking part in the fun?


End file.
